


Many Meetings

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: Better Choice [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-26
Updated: 2005-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir forms two important acquaintances during his months at Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Meetings

Aragorn stretched out his legs, and watched as Faramir and Gandalf approached. The Gondorian's expression was decidedly neutral, and it was clearly only respect and affection for Gandalf that drew him. Aragorn had at first only considered him as a son of Denethor (and felt vague stirrings of pity on that count), despite the clear bright eyes that were obviously an inheritance from his mother. Now he remembered long-forgotton debates with Adrahil of Dol Amroth, whose pleasant, well-bred manners hid a keen and penetrating mind, as well as a wide streak of stubbornness. He had never been entirely certain how or why he always ended up in agreement with the wily Prince; and Faramir, as his performance at the Council had shown, was Adrahil's grandson as much as Ecthelion's. Aragorn sighed, and wondered if he could possibly win Faramir's allegiance; the clever young man could be as valuable an ally as he was dangerous a rival.

"Aragorn," said Gandalf, "I do not believe you have been formally introduced. This is my dear friend, Faramir, son of Denethor." _And of Finduilas,_ thought Aragorn sourly, and smiled pleasantly at him. "Faramir, a very old friend of mine, Aragorn, son of Arathorn." Faramir inclined his head briefly. "Since you are both to accompany us for many miles, I thought it best that you should reconcile any differences of opinion you have, now."

Aragorn sighed. "Thank you, Gandalf."

"You're very welcome." The wizard sat down comfortably, drew out his pipe, and began smoking. Faramir seated himself, with the cautious expression of a man handling a tamed beast that might turn wild again at any moment.

"Lord Aragorn," he said, "you mean to claim the throne of Gondor?"

"Yes," said Aragorn; "and please, just Aragorn. I certainly intend to call you 'Faramir.' "

"Very well. If you don't mind my asking" (although clearly he couldn't care less if Aragorn minded his asking) "why?"

Aragorn blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Why _are_ you claiming the throne? There have been many heirs of Isildur before you, and doubtless will be many after. Why are you claiming the throne _now_ , the time in which we least need any division among us?"

So that was the reason for Faramir's well-veiled antipathy. Aragorn almost laughed. "Faramir, there are many miles between here and Minas Tirith. I do not know what shall come to pass during that time; but I certainly do not intend to cause any political strife. I shall merely be a captain of the Dúnedain of the North, until such a time comes when it is—prudent to declare myself."

Something flickered in Faramir's eyes—respect? disdain? It was gone too quickly for Aragorn to read. But his expression lightened. "I see; although you have still not answered my question."

"Nor you, mine; at least not the intended one."

Faramir raised his eyebrows. "You asked if I wished for the House of Elendil to return to Gondor; I thought my answer fairly clear on that point."

"Let us speak plainly with one another, Faramir. You said you wished for the Silver Crown to return. Do you wish for me to wear it, as King?"

"No," said Faramir.  
 _  
Well,_ thought Aragorn, _that's certainly plain enough._ "Do you have a particular objection to me, then?"

"No." Faramir glanced up, and Aragorn was suddenly able to perceive the troubled expression in his eyes. "You must understand, this is not only a matter between you and I. Denethor is my father; but first he is my lord, and I owe him my allegiance. My foremost loyalty, however, is to Gondor, not to any living man. I am certainly not about to defy the bonds of blood and fealty, much less the law made by my own forefather, for a stranger out of the North, whatever his lineage; but I _will_ judge what is best for my people and my city, and act accordingly." He pressed his lips together. "If you are the best hope for Gondor, then you will have my allegiance; but I do not know yet—I do not know _you_ yet."  
 _  
Plain speaking indeed._ Not that he blamed him; Aragorn had not thought of the matter in such clear terms, but there was no doubt that Faramir was in a distinctly unenviable position. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "I believe we understand each other now. I do not think we need to speak of this matter again; not until we come to Minas Tirith. You'll forgive me if I hope—and expect—that you make your decision by then."

Faramir smiled. "I shall." He turned to the wizard, who had been silently puffing smoke into the air. "Was there something else you wished to ask me, Mithrandir?"

Gandalf put his pipe down, beetling his brows at the young man. "It is nothing more than an old man's idle curiosity—" Aragorn snorted, and Faramir looked distinctly sceptical. "You said, at the Council, that you had guessed at some of what was meant. Tell me of these—guesses."

Faramir looked taken aback. "If you wish—but since I know now, I can't see how they can help." Aragorn was silent, but he thought he knew what the wizard was about. " _The Sword that was broken_ ; I thought the reference had to be Narsil, but I didn't understand at all what it meant. "The 'token,' Isildur's Bane; I did not know, and I had been on the road many miles before I remembered—" he stopped, frowning.

"Yes?" said Gandalf.

"I could not help but notice," said Faramir slowly, "that in all your visits to Minas Tirith, ever since I was a child, you always seemed most interested in Isildur—particularly in what happened after the Dark Lord was defeated." His voice quickened. "And so I looked for those tales, and it seemed—I could not be certain, all the documents were old and withered and I could not clearly read them; but it seemed that Isildur _took_ something from the hand of the Unnamed, ere he went away from Gondor, never to be seen by mortal men again. That, I thought, was the answer to your questioning; but it was strange. It seemed as if the knowledge was both utterly trivial and terribly important, and I did not dare speak to anyone about it—I did not dare to so much as _think_ about it. In a way, I forgot; it did not even occur to me, when the riddling words of our dream were debated among us, that _Isildur's Bane_ might be this same thing, not until I was alone and far from any other speaking people. And even then, I did not realise—" He broke off, shook his head. "I thought it would be some fell weapon of the Dark Lord, perhaps; but even so, I did not expect that it would be so evil. I pity Frodo."

"As do we all," said Gandalf gently. "He is stronger than he looks, however; and already it has been in his possession for many years."

"Can anyone possess such a thing?"

"No." Gandalf sighed. "Let us speak of happier things. I understand you have already seen Elrond's library?"

Aragorn watched in amusement as Faramir flushed slightly. "A little of it. I wish I had more time; there is so much lore and knowledge there—I shan't be able to read half of it before we depart."

Aragorn hadn't gotten through a fraction of it in twenty years of residence; but he had not been a particularly devoted pupil of Elvish tragedies. He liked happy endings too much for that, he supposed. "Probably not," he agreed. "It's rather large."

"I know," Faramir said blissfully. Aragorn suppressed a laugh and turned to Gandalf.

"Perhaps you should introduce him to Glorfindel," he muttered. Gandalf chuckled, and stood up.

"I think I shall; but first, the rest of the Company. Faramir?"

With a distinctly long-suffering expression, Faramir rose. "I'm coming, Mithrandir . . . Are there many left?"

#

"Oh, it's just you," said Pippin artlessly, instantly hiding his hands behind his back. Faramir, who at first could scarcely tell the cousins apart, looked down at him sternly.

"Just I, indeed?"

Pippin turned scarlet. He secretly cherished an admiration bordering on veneration for the lord out of the South, but also felt a certain camaraderie that was no doubt all in his mind and very silly. In any case, he always seemed to be saying dreadfully inappropriate and embarrassing things around him. He looked at Merry, whose expression had fallen into familiar innocent lines, as if they hadn't been stealing mushrooms out of an out-of-the-way spot the Elves seemed to have overlooked. Somehow it was hard to picture the Elves properly enjoying mushrooms.

"Don't pay him any mind, my lord," Merry said firmly. "He puts his foot in his mouth so often that I'm surprised he can walk."  
Faramir, to his credit, did not betray his amusement by so much as a twitch of the lip. "Peregrin Took," he said, with a sigh, "what have you done now?"

"Done, sir?" Pippin's eyes widened. "I don't know what you mean."

"You were relieved that it was 'just I' for no reason, then?" Pippin met Faramir's grey eyes for a moment; but they were too bright and piercing to look at very long. He was certain that Faramir somehow knew not only what he had done this time, but all of his misadventures since he was a lad.

"Er," said Pippin, "I was just glad to see you. We always thought all Men were sort of bumbly and stupid, you know; Strider isn't, but he doesn't talk much to us."

"Mm," said Faramir, turning his gaze on Merry, whose face remained almost defiantly innocent. "And you, Master Meriadoc? You have not led your young kinsman into any mischief?"

How had he known it was Merry's idea? Pippin eyed the tall Man uncomfortably. Merry shook his head. "He hardly needs me to lead him into mischief, sir. And I wouldn't—"

Faramir let out a sigh, and held out his hands. "Very well. Peregrin, the mushrooms."

His eyes widened. "But—"

" _Now_." His voice and demeanour were so commanding that Pippin had already deposited the bag in Faramir's hand before he had even realised what had happened. Merry turned to glare at him.

"Pippin, now we won't get _any_!"

"Perhaps you should come with me, Meriadoc. And you, Peregrin. You know, in my land, it's considered exceptionally bad manners to rob one's guests — or one's hosts." His tone was very level and calm, but Pippin felt positively wretched at his clear disapproval, which was almost as bad as Gandalf's. But Faramir was an old friend — or student, hadn't Frodo said? — of Gandalf's, so that made sense. He sighed despondently.

"I think you should explain all about your little adventure to Mithrandir."

Merry groaned.

"Yes, _you_ , Meriadoc, unless you wish someone else to tell him?"

Merry scowled. "No, my lord. But what about Pippin? It's not fair that I'm the only one being punished!"

"You are facing consequences," Faramir said sternly, "not being punished. As for you, Peregrin, I think your attention should be diverted onto more meaningful activities."

Pippin squirmed miserably. "Yes, sir."

"Since you insist upon accompanying Frodo, perhaps you should have a clearer idea of where, exactly, you are going."

"Mordor," said Pippin promptly. Faramir sighed, feeling a certain sympathy for the parents of these miscreants.

"It's rather a long way," he said dryly. "Meriadoc, Mithrandir is with Aragorn — that way." He pointed helpfully. "I _will_ ask him if you have spoken to him of this affair."

"Yes," mumbled Merry, "I'm sure you will." He shot Faramir a less than effective glare (the Man seemed unperturbed), and stalked away.

"Have you looked at any maps, Peregrin?"

Pippin flushed and shook his head.

"Do you know where the Black Land is, then?"

Pippin shifted uncomfortably. "Er — east. And I think south, a bit."

"I see. Come with me, then. I think some lessons in geography are called for."

"But, sir, I'm not very good at maps, and things like that," Pippin protested, craning his head to look up at Faramir.

"That's quite all right. I always found it terribly dull, myself; I would much rather hear about Tuor's coming to Gondolin than try to decipher where Gondolin was in relationship to the rest of Turgon's kingdom, and the other kingdoms of Beleriand. I still had to learn it, however; and this is much simpler than that, since all the lands are above water still. Come, Peregrin."

Pippin, who did not think he had understood more than one word in three, blinked in confusion. "But, my lord—"

"Peregrin, how many times must I tell you to call me 'Faramir'?"

"You still call me 'Peregrin,' si—Faramir," Pippin pointed out.

"You did not ask me to call you anything else," Faramir said, only his kind smile keeping Pippin from blushing furiously.

"Oh. Well, nobody calls me Peregrin unless they're angry at me. So please don't. Unless you are, obviously."

"Very well. What did you wish to ask, Pippin?"

"What were you talking about? I've heard of Gondolin before, but only because Bilbo's sword was made there, and I've heard him and Frodo talking about it — it was a mighty city, I know, and it's not there anymore — but nothing about this Turgon or Tour." Since Faramir (despite the situation) seemed so very nice, he gathered his pieces of courage together, reminded himself that he was a Took and not afraid of anything, not adventures or Big Folk or this kind man who had not so much as raised his voice in Pippin's hearing, and looked up at Faramir hopefully. "You could tell me about them, couldn't you? You must know an awful lot — the way you talk, I mean — so you could tell me all the stories, about Gondolin and the old battles, and the Elves and the old Men — and how that place, Beleer something, went under the sea — and the sea, I've never seen it, but Frodo says your folk and Strider's came over the sea, where are they come from, and how do they grow so tall — and how you're related to Strider, so you must be, you're so like, and—"

"Pippin," Faramir interjected with a smile, as soon as the halfling paused for breath, "I could not tell you all of that in a twelvemonth. But if you wish to ask questions, you may — one at a time, mind, and _after_ you have proved that you can tell the difference between Fangorn and Laurelindórenan — and I will try to answer them."

Pippin blinked up at the man, surprised at his easy assent. Gandalf always seemed to think his questions a dreadful annoyance — endless pestering, he call it. "You promise?"

"I promise," said Faramir solemnly, although his eyes laughed.

Pippin blinked at him. "Why? I mean, why should a great lord of men, like you, bother with well, me? I'm just a foolish little hobbit." This last was surprisingly despondent.

Faramir tilted his head, stopped and looked down at him. Then he knelt down so that he could look at him directly. "Pippin, you and your kinsmen have already accomplished great deeds — great deeds not made any less because the hands that performed them were small. Even if I were inclined to think you 'a foolish little hobbit,' I would show you respect for Frodo's sake; but I do not!" He smiled reassuringly at Pippin, who bit his lip. "To be perfectly honest, you remind me a great deal of my own cousin, and a little of myself when I was younger."

Pippin stared. "You?"

Faramir laughed and stood up. "You shall have to ask Mithrandir about his visits to Minas Tirith, and about the boy who asked him enough questions to give even a wizard headaches. Now, come, Pippin, we have some maps to look at. And—" he hesitated.

Pippin, who was by now overflowing with good cheer, looked up at him without the slightest anxiety. "Yes?"

"Perhaps, after I have answered some of your questions . . . you can tell me about the Shire?"

Pippin grinned. "I would be glad to, Faramir."


End file.
